


heart is a shaken fist

by escherzo



Series: T4TMA 2021 [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Euphoria, Gender-Focused Sex, Nonbinary Martin Blackwood, Other, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, identity exploration, some dysphoria throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28600116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: Martin reaches out and twines his fingers in Jon’s hair, rubbing over his scalp until he slumps into Martin a little harder, like an overgrown cat getting a good scritch. “Jon,” he says, and closes his eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know? I don’t really have, uh. I don’t know what’s going on with me.”“You liked it when I called you a good girl,” Jon says softly, resting a hand on Martin’s knee and rubbing his thumb back and forth, slow and soothing. “Do you want--I can do that again, if you like. I don’t mind.”“I did,” Martin says, and it feels very real to say it aloud.(T4TMA Day 3: Gender-Focused Sex/Touch)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: T4TMA 2021 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090997
Comments: 46
Kudos: 251
Collections: t4tma week 2021





	heart is a shaken fist

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to day 3! this one is more about figuring out you're trans than others, which is probably why I feel weirder about it. Never have had very good words for these sorts of things, but you know, you try your best. apologies for any clichés herein.
> 
> martin is amab here and uses he/him pronouns for himself throughout, but generally arrives at the conclusion that he's some flavor of nonbinary via some soul-searching and some consensual compelling to help him figure shit out. terms used for him include cock/chest/tits. jon's body is not referred to and he isn't touched during the sex scene.

“You can do it,” Jon says softly in Martin’s ear. Jon is a long line of heat against his side, his hand tucked tightly in Martin’s, and Martin squeezes his eyes shut and fucks his fingers further into himself, curling them, so close he aches with it. He’s never come untouched before, but they’ve been at this for an hour, now, Martin slowly working himself up more and more, his cock straining and red, a mess of precome at the tip that gets wetter with every movement of his fingers. 

“Jon,” Martin manages, high and broken, barely getting the words out, and Jon’s hand tightens in his. He can’t. He’s so close, but he _can’t_.

“You can,” Jon repeats. He kisses the side of Martin’s neck softly. “Be a good girl for me and come.”

Martin’s eyes go wide, and all at once, he’s coming, so quickly it makes his head spin, and Jon holds him tight as he rides it out, his fingers tucked in as deep as they can go. He clenches around them desperately as his cock jerks, making a mess of his belly and thighs, babbling with it, a mess of Jon’s name and half-formed curses. The words ring in his ears. _Be a good girl._

“Sorry,” Jon says, when Martin has gotten his breath back enough to form words again. He looks a little shy. “I’m not entirely sure why--”

“No, it was.” Martin swallows. Something he doesn’t know the shape of bubbles up under his skin, and he swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. He wants Jon to say it again. He doesn’t know why. “It was fine,” he chokes out, and then he can say nothing else, too caught up in a mess of feelings he doesn’t have a name for.

“Alright,” Jon says softly. “Alright.” 

Jon holds him for a long time, after, until his breathing slows and his eyes grow heavy, and Martin tries very hard not to think about anything at all beyond the warmth and safety in his body. 

*

He doesn’t stop thinking about it. 

There is something under his skin that he has no good words for. He has no proper way to explain it; he’s tried, clumsy metaphors in his poems about cocoons and eggs and cats scratching at doors asking to be let in, and none of them are _right_ , but he has always felt that his skin is too small. Something wild and manic lives underneath that he can’t put shape to and it makes him itch with the energy. He’s put up armor over the years, distracted himself with what everyone else needs, because it’s easier that way. Easier than feeling like his body is a room he only sort of owns and someone, every time he looks at it in the mirror, has gone in and moved all the furniture a few centimeters to the left. 

There is a crack in his armor, now, something shook loose from Jon’s words, and the skin underneath it is raw and aching to the point of it being almost physical. He tries to rub at his chest to soothe it, and it only makes the itch worse. 

He’s read Prentiss’s statement. It’s not--quite like that. But there is something in it that feels familiar all the same. The fear, the sense of potential, of something that is within him that is trapped beneath years of careful papering and at any moment he might give himself over to it and be lost. It’s not as literal as hers, of course. But there are things he is happier trying not to look too closely at, because they feel just as impossible; the words don’t feel right, when he says them to himself, and explaining them to Jon would be harder still. He’s tried. 

Jon would understand, he thinks, if he could put it properly. Or at least, would have a better chance of understanding than anyone else would. But--

“Jon,” he begins, one day, as they are sat on the old, squashy couch in the front room of the safehouse, a quilt thrown haphazardly over both of their laps and the fire Martin carefully stoked this afternoon keeping their toes warm in this drafty house. “I--” 

“Hm?” Jon asks, and does not lift his head from where it is pillowed against the side of Martin’s chest. 

“I, um.” He almost wants Jon to _ask_ him. Maybe then he could get the words out. But he’s not quite sure _he’s_ ready to hear them yet, and so instead he rests his head against Jon’s and says, “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Jon says, tucking an arm behind Martin to wrap around his waist and pull him closer. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I think so? It’s just.” Martin sighs and relaxes into him. “Just been thinking about a lot of things.” Been thinking about what you called me, he doesn’t say, because it’s part of the restlessness under his skin, and he’s not sure quite _how_ yet, and--

“Was it…” Jon hesitates. 

“I don’t know,” Martin says.

“If you ever want to… talk about that more,” Jon says, looking into the fire instead of at Martin, and that makes it a bit easier, somehow, “I might understand it.” 

“Why did you say it?” Martin asks. 

Jon is silent for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he says, picking at a stray thread on the quilt. He winds it between his fingers and then unravels it, watching the way the thread curls up. “It felt right to, in the moment.”

“Oh,” Martin says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

The Eye, Martin thinks ruefully, very rarely gives information that is actually _useful_. Most of the time it’s little factoids like _this road was last repaved three years ago by a man who was not all that invested in his task and was thinking about the woman he was having an affair with instead of keeping the lines straight. There is a portion that was not set properly that will crack when it next gets cold_ , which Jon repeats as though literally anyone in the world cares about that besides him, and Martin smiles obligingly and does not roll his eyes at the latest fun fact that peppers their walk into town. It doesn’t tell him things like _Martin is about to get a cold_ , or _we’re low on toothpaste_. But it does feed on secrets, and the uncertainty and fear they bring. Maybe it likes this one.

That said, it’s not a secret, exactly, unless he can keep a secret from himself. Martin doesn’t _know_ how to express it, how to put it into words that he can wrap his mind around; if he did, all of this would be easier. 

“If you want to be…” Jon hesitates much longer this time, and they sit there in the hanging silence and listen to the fire crackling and the whistling of the wind outside the cabin as the winter brings bitter cold and ice in its wake. “Not that that is necessarily any _indicator_ of anything, and it’s entirely possible I’m reading too much into it because of my own situation, but--” 

Martin reaches out and twines his fingers in Jon’s hair, rubbing over his scalp until he slumps into Martin a little harder, like an overgrown cat getting a good scritch. “Jon,” he says, and closes his eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know? I don’t really have, uh. I don’t know what’s going on with me.” 

“You liked it when I called you a good girl,” Jon says softly, resting a hand on Martin’s knee and rubbing his thumb back and forth, slow and soothing. “Do you want--I can do that again, if you like. I don’t mind.” 

“I did,” Martin says, and it feels very real to say it aloud. “I don’t think I’m. Okay, I don’t _know_ if I’m like you? I don’t think so. But. I’d like that, yeah.” 

“Anything else?” Jon asks. 

“That one caught me a bit off guard, honestly! So… I don’t know. I wish I did.” 

“You don’t have to know right now,” Jon says, and he doesn’t push further than that. He sighs and rubs his head against Martin’s chest and then lapses into silence, and Martin doesn’t mean to let the both of them fall asleep here, cuddled up on the couch, but the fire is warm and Jon’s small body tucked in alongside his is warmer still, and the next thing he knows, he’s blinked and it’s morning and his back is aching. 

*

“Martin,” Jon says, as Martin is brushing his teeth and trying not to pull faces at his reflection in the ancient mirror in the bathroom, a big, dusty thing with a crack in it going all the way through that he thinks might drop half the mirror out in one go someday. 

“Hm?” 

Jon smiles, something small and soft and secret. “You look pretty today,” he says, and the words jolt through Martin. Jon reaches out and twines his fingers through Martin’s curls, which have been badly in need of a cut for weeks now; they tumble nearly to his shoulders, a riotous mess of ginger that is going in all directions this morning. He looks at the two of them in the mirror and then back at Jon properly.

“Jon?” he asks, uncertain, the word coming out strange and garbled around the toothbrush still hanging out of his mouth.

“Sorry,” Jon says, taking a step back. “If that’s too much--” 

Martin shakes his head, because he can’t talk properly like this, but something in him feels so terribly, awfully, wonderfully warm at the words and he doesn’t know how to get his head around that, but what he knows, above everything else, is that he absolutely does not want Jon to stop telling him that. 

“Alright,” Jon says, and steps close again, wrapping his arms around Martin from behind. “Then you look pretty.” 

Martin smiles, blinking back the sudden tears that bead in the corners of his eyes, and for a long moment, they just stand there, back to front, until the remnants of toothpaste in Martin’s mouth start to burn and he has to get Jon to let him go to finish brushing his teeth. 

“Pretty,” he repeats to the mirror, after Jon has gone to the kitchen to start fixing them breakfast. He doesn’t _feel_ pretty--his shirt is old and oversized, once white but discolored in patches now and fraying at the hems, and he’s got a day’s worth of stubbled growth all over his chin. His hair is everywhere. There are flecks of toothpaste at the corners of his lips. 

But if _Jon_ believes it, that’s… something, at least. He’s not sure what, but it’s something.

*

“So,” Martin tells the mirror, several days later, when the strange restlessness under his skin has been buzzing so hard it threatens to drown out everything else. He’s starting to hate this mirror. He stares into it far more than he wants to. “I’m…”

There’s no _harm_ in it; he just wants to say it aloud to feel how strange it sounds. It’s just a test. There’s nothing wrong with it. Jon is outside, trying to clear the path enough that they can get out the door past the fallen snow and down to the village tomorrow, and won’t be around to hear it. 

“I’m a woman,” he tells his reflection, and immediately wrinkles his nose. There’s a curl of unease at the pit of his stomach. It doesn’t make him feel the same way that being called _pretty_ or a _good girl_ does. It’s just weird. He was hoping on some level that it would feel transformative. That he would crack open his cocoon and emerge, easy and simple: a woman, like Jon is a man, and all of a sudden the way he’s always felt slightly left of center in his own body would make sense. That it would be a _relief_. 

It isn’t. It’s just weird. 

“... I’m a man,” he says, to feel how weird _that_ is. He’s not sure he’s ever actually said it out loud before. It doesn’t really come up in normal conversation. 

He lets those words settle, and then closes his eyes and rests his head against the mirror in despair, because if anything, that is _worse_. The unease in him has grown to nearly a physical pain, and he rubs at his stomach as though he can massage it away. Shit. Shit. Couldn’t anything, just for once, be _simple_? He has no idea what to do with any of it now. Jon is just--straightforwardly a man, and has been for the entire time Martin has known him. He’s not entirely sure Jon _would_ understand this. 

“Martin?” Jon calls from the front room, and then, when Martin doesn’t answer, he asks again, softer, “... Martin?” 

When Martin opens his eyes, Jon is resting against the doorframe, biting his lip like he wants to say something but isn’t sure what, yet. His eyes are soft and kind and Martin does not know how to dump all of this on him. 

“Just... “ Martin laughs, and there is absolutely no humor in it. “Just, um, having a minor gender crisis in the bathroom?” 

“Oh,” Jon says, and when Martin turns towards him, he rushes forward all at once and pulls Martin into a tight hug, his hands balled in the fabric of Martin’s shirt to keep him as close as possible. Martin holds on for a long time, and he can feel tears start to bead in the corners of his eyes, and it’s stupid, it’s _stupid_ , there is no reason to cry over this, but when he sniffles Jon just holds him tighter and rocks him back and forth, the two of them swaying from one foot to the other. 

“Figured anything out?” Jon asks softly, a long while later. 

“No,” Martin says, and it comes out watery. He sniffles again. “Well. Not a woman? Probably. Just… not so sure on the guy front right now either?” 

“Yeah,” Jon says, still keeping his voice soft, and he rubs at Martin’s back in slow and soothing circles. “I get that.” 

“I wish, um. I wish I just _knew_ what the hell to do with any of this, because we have enough going on that I, I don’t really need to be dealing with it right now? But no, just had to go down the whole, like, rabbit hole, and see what was down there, and what was down there is ‘Martin has no idea how he works and everything is complicated!’ and then the rabbit kicked me in the face. Or, um. Something.” 

Jon laughs a little, affectionate. “You do have a way with words,” he says. 

“Shut it, you,” Martin says, but he finds he’s smiling a little too. “You know, I--” He hesitates. There is a way he could get at least _some_ clarity. Jon’s whole _thing_ is knowledge and secrets and getting people to tell him things they don’t want to say aloud. He didn’t want to try it, earlier, but it might be better than nothing. Most people don’t get a chance like this. If anything, he’s _lucky_. 

“Hm?” Jon asks.

“I’m… trying to think of a good way to ask, ‘can you check with the dread power you serve to see if it knows what gender I am’,” Martin admits. 

That gets a real laugh out of Jon, loud and startled. 

“I could Ask,” he says. “But I think… I would need to know _what_ to ask, to make it be of any use.” 

Martin doesn’t know. That’s sort of been the crux of the whole issue, that he doesn’t have the shape of this enough to put it into words. He hesitates, and Jon finally pulls away, taking Martin’s hands in his. 

“Let’s not do this in here,” he says, and leads Martin back to the couch in the front room. The fire is down to smoldering embers, and the whole front of the house has turned drafty and cold; Martin is enormously grateful for the pile of blankets that’s slowly been building at the corner of the couch, both because he is abruptly _freezing_ and because it’s a comfort to be wrapped in a pile of them when he’s feeling poorly. He wants to wipe his eyes, which still feel sore and red, but Jon’s hands are still firmly in his, and Jon doesn’t let him go until he’s properly swaddled into a pile of quilts and the softer blankets Jon seems to acquire every time he goes into town these days. 

“So,” Jon says, settling down cross-legged on the couch facing him. 

“So,” Martin repeats, and he tries to look at Jon, but Jon’s got a determined look in his face, the sort he gets when there is a puzzle he hasn’t quite unraveled, and he knows that since he’s suggested it Jon is going to go down this rabbit hole with him until they either reach the end of it or Martin says stop, and not before. “How did _you_ figure it out?” That seems like the most sensible thing to start with.

“I…” Jon takes a moment to think about it. “I hit puberty and established that I was going in entirely the wrong direction with it. I don’t think I knew that there was anything I could _do_ with that information until I met some of Georgie’s friends, but I--don’t know that my situation is all that applicable to yours, unfortunately.” 

Martin sighs. He’s not wrong. He didn’t have a lightbulb go on when he hit puberty, past that he was getting bigger and the bigger he got, the more his mother disliked him, and so it’s a bit hard to disentangle if there was anything else going on there. He might have just not noticed underneath the mess of being a teenager, full of hormones and acne and, suddenly, a mother who wouldn’t look at him. He doesn’t want to get into all of that at present. Mostly, he’s happier not thinking about it at all.

“... Yeah,” he says finally, instead of any of that. “Not very. Sorry?” He does need to either call this off or figure out _something_ to suggest to Jon, though, so he picks at the strings on the quilts and tries to roll all of his muddled thoughts around in his brain until something shakes out. Maybe he should just start simple. “Try… hmm. Maybe just--ask me what I’m feeling right now to start?” 

“That could work,” Jon says, and his eyes are brighter and more intent when he meets Martin’s again. “Martin. _What are you feeling right now?_ ”

“Nervous,” Martin says, and lets out a little sound, halfway between a laugh and a noise of utter distress. “I was expecting that when I did my--experiment, that it’d make things easier, and I’d be able to tell you I’d figured myself out, and not have to worry about it anymore past, you know, parts that might mean I needed to _change_ something. But I tried saying that I was a woman, and that was weird, and then to test it a little more I said I was a man, and that was a lot worse, and I know people _can_ be like… in between? Something else? Both? I don’t know. I’ve been to Pride and I’ve got ears, I know that’s a thing, but it’s not like I can just park myself down in some sort of support group until someone who’s exactly like me sits down next to me and goes, ‘here you go, Martin, here’s how to make yourself feel better.’” 

He takes a deep breath and fidgets. It’s always a bit overwhelming when they do this. He and Jon don’t often, at least not on purpose, but once in a while it’s easier to communicate this way, where he can just spill his guts indiscriminately until he’s done and Jon can just listen and drink it in. 

“Alright,” Jon says gently, reaching out to rest a hand over Martin’s. “Maybe… hm. _What would make you feel better_?” 

“Oh,” Martin says, a bit startled, because that part hadn’t--really occurred to him as something that he could ask. “I think, maybe just… I don’t know, exactly, I know you’re okay with it whichever way it goes, but I like it when you think I’m pretty. I like that sort of, um, headspace I get in, I guess. I don’t really think _I’m_ pretty, though it is maybe a weird thing to think about yourself, but I like the thought of you looking at me and thinking about what a pretty girl I am. Maybe just… talk to me like that? Or touch me like you would touch a pretty girl, if you want. I don’t think I’m a woman, really, but there’s something about that that I really like. It makes me feel all--nice, you know? And I don’t think about the rest of my body so much then.” 

Jon moves closer to him, sitting side by side instead of making direct eye contact, and it’s comforting to feel the heat of his body against Martin’s. It’s easier, too, to not have to look at him. “I understand that,” he says softly. “I used to… well. This is about you, but yes, I understand that.” 

“It’s not _just_ about me,” Martin says, leaning over to rest his head against Jon’s. “Can you be a girl if you’re not a woman?” 

“I have no idea,” Jon says, blinking. “But no one else is around to say that you _can’t_ , and I don’t see why not, so, I suppose?” 

It still feels--a bit strange, put like that, but this time, it’s closer to being a _good_ kind of strange, and Martin takes a deep, shuddery breath. “I think I’m done with… answering things for now,” he says, closing his eyes. “That was, um. That was a lot. But I think it helped?”

“Good,” Jon says, and leans in to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Is there anything you need?”

Martin takes a long, shuddering breath. “Could you put the kettle on? And find the whiskey. I think I could use something strong.” 

“Of course,” Jon says, and kisses him, soft and sweet, before he goes. 

*

Jon is careful with him, in the days after. He doesn’t push, or pry, but sometimes, he’ll come up behind Martin and murmur to him that he looks pretty, or that he’s being a good girl, helping him out like this, with little things like Martin drying the dishes with him or helping him chop wood for the fireplace. Sometimes he just calls Martin his girl, unprompted, and every time, Martin has to reach out to steady himself on something. It feels _good_ , in a way that is entirely unexpected, better every time he hears it. Jon calls it _euphoria_ once or twice, and he thinks that’s a good way to put it. He wants to talk to Jon all the time, even more so than usual, just for the chance that Jon will say those words to him. 

“C’mon, girl, up,” he tells himself once, trying to force himself to get out of bed and go across the cold floor to the kitchen, and even that makes his chest ache with something hot and fierce and _good_.

He’s not sure where the boundaries of this are just yet, but. It’s good. It’s better.

*

It’s late, late enough that he thinks Jon might be asleep, when he feels the hand at his hip. Jon’s eyes are shining, catching the low light from the half moon through the window--a bright, unnatural green, and Martin’s breath catches. His thoughts keep wandering during the day, back to what he said under the compulsion-- _Touch me like you would touch a pretty girl_ , and to Jon’s long, thin hands, and the promise in them, and now he feels them slowly sliding under his shirt.

“Martin?” Jon asks, low and sweet, his voice a rumble, and Martin was not expecting to be touched tonight, but all at once his heartbeat kicks up at the heat of Jon’s hands. Jon is careful and deliberate when he’s ready to touch; it’s rare and sweet and Jon is always unfailingly thorough, even when he doesn’t want to be touched in return. There is something hungry in Jon’s eyes tonight. 

“Yes,” he says, because he doesn’t know any other word in the moment, and in the silent stillness of the room, Jon shifting in the sheets to sit up and lean over him seems so loud. He can already feel the warm curl of arousal in his belly, and it sharpens, deepens, as Jon tilts his head up to meet his and kisses him. Jon likes kissing more than any of the rest, and he kisses deep and dirty, his tongue curling along Martin’s, making Martin his singular focus so thoroughly that Martin lose his breath every time, and by the time he breaks the kiss Martin is red-faced and panting, half-hard against Jon’s hip from nothing but the feel of Jon’s mouth against his. 

Jon’s hand slides further up under his shirt, and Martin lets him strip it off, shivering at the cold but unable to look away. “Good girl,” Jon says, and there is so much love in his tone Martin’s whole body aches with it, even as the words send his heart singing like they always do. Jon’s touches are careful as he strips Martin of his clothes, but he is intent, kissing the inches of Martin’s bare skin as it is exposed. Worshipping him. He clings to Jon, to the sheets, to anything he can reach. 

“My pretty girl,” Jon says, his lips and his tongue hot against Martin’s bare skin, and when he cups Martin’s chest with his hands like he would breasts, Martin makes a soft, wanting noise, because he can’t hold it back any longer. 

“Please,” Martin says, and Jon asks, the question buzzing on his tongue, “please _what?_ ” 

Martin’s face goes red as he says the words, but he _has_ to answer, and so he says, his voice going high and cracked, “please, please touch my tits.” He’s never called them that before. Never even known he wanted to. But it feels right, even as it embarrasses him, and somehow, even the embarrassment feels good. 

Jon smiles at him and then leans down, teasing at Martin’s nipples with his fingers and then his teeth and tongue until Martin is panting and squirming, his nipples hard and reddened, oversensitized to touch, and he does not know how he is going to get through this in one piece, but Jon is holding him tight. Jon has him. 

On some nights, because Martin likes it, Jon pushes Martin hard, lets him give into the moments where pleasure becomes half-pain and he’s a whimpering, begging mess by the end, entirely too wrung out to do anything but submit to Jon, but tonight, he doesn’t push, although it is no less intense. He touches Martin like he is something beautiful and precious, stroking down his sides as he whispers how wonderfully pretty Martin is, how lovely. What a good girl he is to let Jon do this to him. 

“Jon,” Martin says, as Jon’s hands slip lower, his eyes still shining with that unnatural green light, and his hands come up to cradle Jon’s head. “I love you.” He doesn’t know what else to say. How else to express the feeling bubbling up inside him. 

Jon answers him in touch, still exploring every inch of him as though it is new. As though he hasn’t done this so many times, on so many nights. _I see you_ , Jon told him, once, and brought him back out of hell, and in this moment, Martin feels just as caught by his gaze. Being _seen_ like this. It’s love, and worship, and other things he doesn’t have names for, and he has never felt more known than in this moment. 

“My good girl,” Jon says, and he looks so fond that Martin aches with it as Jon slides down the bed to take Martin into the searing heat of his mouth, and Martin winds his fingers into the soft, dark mess of Jon’s hair and holds on as Jon slowly, methodically takes him apart with every swipe of his tongue, every bob of his head. Martin doesn’t keep quiet, because he knows Jon likes to hear it, likes the way his shaky breaths become little whimpering moans as he squirms, fighting against the urge to push his hips up into Jon’s mouth

He tugs at Jon’s hair as he gets close, and Jon pulls off, his hand replacing his mouth as he strokes him the rest of the way, still watching Martin so intently, and he kisses the inside of Martin’s thigh, light and gentle in contrast to the tight, wicked pulls of his hand; against Martin’s skin, he repeats the words that settle into Martin’s bones like they’ve always belonged there--that he is _good_ , Jon’s beautiful girl, such a good girl to give him this, and Martin’s eyes are watering with tears as he comes, too overwhelmed to hold on any longer. 

Jon holds him close, after, tucking Martin against his chest, and combs through the sweaty mess of Martin’s curls, untangling the little knots of them with careful, delicate fingers. “Good?” he asks, and Martin takes a long, shuddering breath, trying to ward off the tears that are still threatening to fall. They’re good tears, though, he thinks. Happy tears. This is all just… a lot. 

“The first time Georgie touched me like I wasn’t a girl I cried too,” Jon says quietly, leaning down to kiss the top of Martin’s head. Martin curls in tighter to Jon at that, wanting to be close. To keep him near while his body and his mind try to come down. Jon reaches over for his discarded shirt and cleans Martin off, and Martin smiles against his skin. Usually Jon is finicky about cleanup, but Martin doesn’t feel at all in a state to be able to get up and get to the shower, and so they’re meeting halfway on it. He appreciates it more than he can properly say. 

They drift off to sleep together just like that, still a bit of a mess, Martin still tucked close against Jon’s chest.

*

“Martin,” Jon calls, opening the front door and coming in with both arms laden heavy with bags, “I got you something.” 

“Groceries, I hope,” Martin calls from the couch, peering over the back of it at Jon. There are definitely groceries, and a fresh envelope full of statements tucked under Jon’s arm that will have to be checked later, after the whole incident with the statement Elias sent that Martin found, and another little bundle that he can’t so readily identify. 

“Well, yes, but not just groceries,” Jon says, putting down the grocery bags and everything else on the kitchen table and starting to bustle around the kitchen, filling the shelves with food that mostly only Martin eats. He motions to the small parcel beside the statement envelope on the table. 

Martin gets up with a weary sigh, squirming out from under the mass of blankets on the couch into the colder world beyond it, but something in Jon’s eyes looks _very_ pleased with himself, and Martin is curious. The parcel is small and squashy, and he turns it over once, twice, before starting to tear it open. 

“Did you get another blanket?” he asks, and then stops short. Inside the parcel is a soft, flowing shirt--white, with little embroidered white roses at the cuffs and a little bow at the neckline. He holds it up; it’s definitely too big for Jon.

“You don’t have to, of course,” Jon says, and something in his tone seems more nervous than anything else. He bites his lip. “I just thought…” 

“It’s pretty,” Martin admits, looking at it. He lets himself imagine, for a moment, what it might look like on him. How it might feel. The fabric is so soft and silky. 

“I thought it would look good on you,” Jon says. His cheeks are faintly flushed. “I, uh. I can return it if you don’t want it.” 

“I’ll try it,” Martin says; he’s not _sure_ \--he hasn’t tried anything with clothes yet. Wasn’t sure he wanted to. But the shirt is here, and it’s only Jon here to see him if he looks stupid in it. He tugs his jumper up and over his head all at once, trying not to shiver as his skin is exposed to the cold air, and then reaches for it. It feels so nice in his hands. He closes his eyes as he puts it on, and it feels better on than it did in his hands. Something light and cool to wear as the weather gets warmer, he thinks, and lets himself open his eyes slowly. Jon is still watching him carefully, something curious and fond in his gaze. 

“Do you want to look in the mirror?” Jon asks, fiddling with the handles of one of the grocery bags like he’s trying to give his hands something to do that aren’t reaching out for Martin. 

Martin nods, because it’s easier than trying to speak. He stumbles to the bathroom on shaky legs, not daring to look down at himself, because he wants to take a look at this _properly_ for the first time. Even if it feels good to wear.

“Oh,” he says to his reflection. It looks like it was made for him. Like this was exactly how he was always supposed to look. He rocks from side to side a little, watching the way the fabric sways, and when he looks back up at his face, he finds that he is smiling so wide it makes his cheeks hurt. He hadn’t even noticed. 

“You look pretty,” Jon says softly, from behind him, and for once, Martin looks in the mirror, and thinks, _I do_. He reaches out for Jon, and Jon goes, folding himself into Martin’s arms. 

The groceries end up forgotten for a long while after that.


End file.
